Pain is a gift from the gods, Lord Eddard," Grand Maester Pycelle told him. "It means the bone is knitting, the flesh healing itself. Be thankful."
"I will be thankful when my leg stops throbbing."
Pycelle set a stoppered flask on the table by the bed. "The milk of the poppy, for when the pain grows too onerous."
"I sleep too much already."
"Sleep is the great healer."
"I had hoped that was you."
Pycelle smiled wanly. "It is good to see you in such a fierce humor, my lord." He leaned close and lowered his voice. "There was a raven this morning, a letter for the queen from her lord father. I thought you had best know."
Dark wings, dark words, Ned said grimly. "What of it?"
Lord Tywin is greatly wroth about the men you sent after Sir Gregor Clegane, the maester confided. "I fearedhe would be. You will recall, I said as much in council."
Let him be wroth, Ned said. Every time his leg throbbed, he remembered Jaime Lannister's smile, and Jory dead in his arms. "Let him write all the letters to the queen he likes. Lord Beric rides beneath the king's ownbanner. If Lord Tywin attempts to interfere with the king's justice, he will have Robert to answer to. The only thing His Grace enjoys more than hunting is making war on lords who defy him."